


Sympathy

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Durarara!!
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Biting, Blood and Injury, Bruises, Caretaking, Death Threats, Developing Relationship, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation in Shower, Men Crying, Revenge, Rough Kissing, Scratching, Serious Injuries, Stitches, Threats of Violence, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-02-22 08:03:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2500568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Shizuo had been having a peaceful night when his phone rings. He’s furious even before he hits the button to pick up the call." Shizuo gets a call from Izaya for a very different reason than he expects.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Resort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Added a little bit of content here to deal with a plot hole that was fraying wider by the chapter!

Shizuo had been having a peaceful night. He has the evening off from work and personal commitments alike, had every intention of sprawling out across his couch and rewatching bad action movies until he fell asleep with the sound of manufactured violence lulling him to unconsciousness. It’s a good plan, a comfortable plan, and he’s just reaching to tug his tie loose in preparation to do exactly that when his phone rings.

He’s furious even before he hits the button to pick up the call.

“What the  _fuck_.” The words are raw in his throat, as angry about the interruption to his plans, the interruption to his  _peace_ , as about the actual identity of the caller himself. “It’s my fucking  _night off_ , Izaya- _kun_ , what do you  _want_?”

“Shizu-chan.” The false intimacy of the nickname grates over Shizuo’s nerves, but it lacks the brittle edge it usually has, that it  _should_  have. Shizuo’s hand goes still on the fabric of his tie, his face creases into confusion as he struggles to close his attention on what, exactly, is stalling the heated flood of hate on his lips. “You remember how you said not to call unless I was dying.”

“Yeah.” Shizuo’s fire is dampened by the unfamiliar tone in Izaya’s voice. He can’t place it, there’s something there that he’s never heard in the sharp skid of the other’s usual vocal range, and the amusement flickering in the words is distracting, keeps bringing his attention fluttering away into irritation instead of focus.

“Well.” There’s a rough sound, wet and raw, and when Izaya speaks again that tone is louder than ever, Shizuo can barely hear the everpresent laughter in his throat at all. “I thought I’d --” The static of noise again, scraped inhuman over the line so it takes Shizuo a moment to realize that’s a  _cough_ , that’s Izaya’s throat working around air and liquid together. “Give you a chance to gloat.”

Shizuo blinks. He’s not seeing anything in front of him anymore; all his attention is given over to the other end of the phone pressed to his ear, to framing the context Izaya’s not quite giving him. “Wait. What the  _fuck_  are you talking about?”

“Sorry I didn’t hold out for you,” Izaya is saying, but Shizuo isn’t really hearing the words; he’s gaining traction off that first phrase,  _unless I was dying_ , and his adrenaline is skidding into overdrive over Izaya’s choking speech. “I--I guess they saved you the trouble.”

“Who’s  _they_?” Shizuo blurts, but he doesn’t give Izaya a chance to respond, that’s the wrong question anyway. “Where  _are_  you,  _tell me_.”

“Don’t worry.” Izaya’s voice is sounding fainter. There’s no laughter in his tone at all, anymore; he sounds weirdly mortal without it. “You don’t have to finish the job, Shizu-chan.”

“ _Izaya-kun_ ,” Shizuo starts, but he’s growling in preemptive frustration even before the line clicks and goes dead. He calls back even before he throws open the door to his apartment, as takes the stairs three at a time to the street, but there’s no response, like he knew there wouldn’t be.

He keeps calling anyway, redialing over and over so the electronic neutrality of voicemail keeps him company through the night-dark streets of the city. He can feel the faint tinge of Izaya in the air, the oil-slick awareness of invasion clear enough that he can follow it across the park, as he cuts diagonally over nearly-deserted roads without thinking about anything but the thud of his heartbeat coming too-fast and that same repetition of generic voicemail, the polite request to  _leave a message after the tone_  without any of Izaya-influence Shizuo can all but taste in the air around him.

He hears the ringing of the other phone before he rounds the corner to actually see it. It’s an echo of the buzz in his ear, delayed just enough to be its own sound and coming tinny from the dampening of the alley walls, but it’s still clear enough that Shizuo is letting his phone fall from his ear as he takes the corner so sharply he nearly clips the wall with his shoulder.

Izaya’s sitting up, slumped against the dark wall and staring at the glowing screen of the phone lying over his unmoving fingers with a smile Shizuo is pretty sure he isn’t supposed to see. He turns his chin up as Shizuo steps into the narrow alley, the yellow glow of the streetlights catching his skin into unhealthy pallor, and Shizuo has just processed the dark streak over his lower lip and trickling down to the collar of his shirt when Izaya drags his mouth into a smirk that doesn’t touch his eyes at all.

“You didn’t have to come,” he says. His voice is a little steadier than it sounded over the phone, more usual in its lilting taunt, but without the amplification of the phone speaker Shizuo can tell how faint the words are coming, can see how slow the movement of Izaya’s eyelashes are when he blinks. “I told you.” He tips his head away, coughs around a breath that sounds more like a gurgle. The light of the cell phone goes dim, falls into the notification of a missed call instead of an active ring.

He doesn’t  _actually_  look all that bad, in the dim lighting. There’s that dark smear across his chin, streaking the back of his knuckle where he must have wiped at it, and his face is a little weird, one side swollen out-of-symmetry with the other. But his hands are lying open at his sides, wrists tipped up to the unnatural light from the street, and the angle of his neck is slightly too steep for comfort, says that it’s the wall supporting the weight of his head and not Izaya himself.

“What the  _fuck_  happened,” Shizuo says without entirely expecting a response. He drops to a knee, rests his weight on what has to be filthy ground so he’s not blocking the light on Izaya’s pale features.

Izaya blinks, slowly again. His smirk loses its edge, relaxes into self-deprecating softness as his gaze slides out-of-focus on Shizuo’s face. “I tried to sell the wrong people the right information.” When he coughs again Shizuo can see it shake through his shoulders, like Izaya’s incapable of restraining the motion at all. “They decided my life wasn’t worth it to them.”

“They were right,” Shizuo snaps. He’s reaching out for Izaya’s shirt, ready to touch the torn edges he can see across the other’s waist, feel out the stripe of pale skin above blood-dark injury, but well-trained self-preservation keeps his hand just shy of contact, pulls his gaze down to the apparent weakness of Izaya’s hands as he tries to calculate the likelihood of getting a sudden knife in his ribs.

Izaya’s laugh is weak, shattered glass in the noisy quiet of the city. “I’m not going to stab you.” Shizuo glances back up and Izaya is watching him again, his head angled more sharply sideways now so the vulnerable line of his throat is offered up to the light. “I can’t feel my hands.” He takes a long, rasping breath, swallows and grimaces at the sensation. “I couldn’t hurt you even if I wanted to pick a fight.”

“You  _don’t_  want to pick a fight?” Shizuo scoffs, but he does reach out, sets his fingers against the cut fabric to scope out the length of the tear. Izaya flinches, shuts his eyes, but doesn’t move to push him away. “Bullshit, no way.”

“You can believe what you want, Shizu-chan.” Izaya is smiling again, his head tilting farther sideways. “I only called you to let you know to start missing me.”

“Fuck you,” Shizuo growls, but Izaya doesn’t answer. Shizuo can see the curve of his lips go slack, the tension of pain in his features relax into unconsciousness, and just starts to process the tilt of his shoulders when Izaya starts to slide sideways to collapse to the ground. It’s reflex that throws Shizuo’s arm out to catch him, instinct that sends him leaning in to take Izaya’s boneless weight on his shoulder, and then he looks down and sees his shirt going dark against the point of contact.

“ _Shit_.” Shizuo wraps an arm around Izaya’s shoulders to steady the balance of his body, shoves one-handed at the other’s legs until he can get the support of his forearm under Izaya’s knees. All the front of his brain has gone quiet to make room for the spreading chill of panic turning his blood into ice and sending his stomach swooping into nausea. He can feel blood seeping through his shirt and undershirt in quick succession, chill and clammy by the time it touches his skin, and if Izaya’s habitually dark clothing doesn’t show the color Shizuo’s white shirt is going to look like a crime scene before they get back to his apartment.

He takes the most direct route back, stepping over landscaped hedges and taking stairs at nearly a run. Izaya’s inordinately light; holding him is like carrying a doll, if a doll was composed of what feels entirely like sharp-edged bone. His shoulder is digging into Shizuo’s chest, his elbow pinning hurt into Shizuo’s forearm, but Shizuo doesn’t stop to adjust, or maybe just to abandon him, because his shirt is soaked entirely through, now, and if he slows down he has to think about the fact that he’s pretty sure Izaya’s breathing is getting weaker with each inhale.

Everything looks worse once Shizuo kicks the unlocked door to his apartment open and gets them inside under the light. Black and red pull apart into distinct colors, the illumination turning Shizuo’s shirt crimson and painting all the tears in Izaya’s shirt bloody red to contrast the breathless pale of his skin. Shizuo considers his options for a moment before striding to the bathroom, fishing a towel free with the tips of his fingers while keeping a precarious hold on Izaya’s unmoving form. He tosses it across the couch before depositing the other onto it and is rewarded immediately with stolen color catching into the towel instead of the fabric of the couch itself. It’s pointless to change his own shirt; it’s ruined past hope of saving now, anyway, so he ignores it, pushes the buttons at the cuffs free and shoves the sleeves up past his elbows before he starts peeling the remains of Izaya’s clothes off.

The jacket is still mostly intact, although Shizuo doubts the fur at the sleeves and collar is going to come clean of the stained red soaked into it. But Izaya’s shirt is a mess, ripped to tatters by the edges of knives and heavy with liquid as Shizuo yanks it up over the other’s head. It’s worse underneath; all the skin he can see cleanly is translucent-pale, clammy to the touch for all that it’s smeared over with drying red from a dozen cuts. Some are smaller, shallow and thin enough that they’re sticky with forming scabs before Shizuo touches them, but there’s a long deep one over the sharp edge of Izaya’s hip, still dripping blood to soak the towel under him, and one in his shoulder that looks like a stab instead of a slice, so deep Shizuo can’t tell how far the damage extends. Then there’s a mass of bruises, imprints of knuckles wrapped around knife handles or maybe knees; it’s impossible to tell the cause apart, now that it’s just purpling swelling over what are almost certainly at least three cracked ribs.

The injuries painting Izaya’s skin scarlet are bad, far worse than Izaya’s most successful attacks on Shizuo. But they’re not enough to explain the shallow pant of his breathing, the white of his parted lips, so there’s more still. Shizuo tears the fabric of Izaya’s jeans as the easiest method of getting them off. Between his fingers the denim splits along the seam, bares skinny legs up the the edge of boxers and there’s no blood, no injury at all until Shizuo shoves Izaya’s still form over. Then he finds it, the bone-deep slice so high on pale thigh that the knife that did it tore through the bottom inch of Izaya’s last remaining clothing.

“Shit.” It’s still bleeding, a sluggish trickle that shows no sign of stopping in spite of the pool of red on the towel where Izaya was lying. Shizuo glances up but Izaya’s still unmoving, his head twisted awkwardly against the cushion and his arms limp around his waist. At least he’s breathing, even if Shizuo can hear the whine of effort on every inhale. Shizuo leaves him where he is, bleeding into a towel and stripped nearly to bare skin while he goes to retrieve the first-aid kit he leaves out on his bathroom counter as a matter of course.

Shizuo doesn’t think about washing his hands until he comes back out, is dropping to a knee and actually confronted with the prospect of stitching Izaya’s skin back together. He stares at that injury for a moment, contemplating how much effort he actually wants to go through, before he reaches to grab a handful of alcohol wipes and tears the packets open all at once. They don’t take all the blood off his fingers any more than they clean the color off Izaya’s skin, but he can feel the chill of evaporating isopropyl, is sure Izaya would be cringing at the pain were he conscious, and that’s going to have to be good enough.

It’s strange to push the needle through Izaya’s skin. Shizuo’s not used to turning this level of focus on the other, or at least not this precisely controlled effort. It’s all backwards, to be pulling Izaya’s skin shut instead of doing his level best to tear it open, but the bleeding slows as the raw edges come together, and if the stitches are irregular and inelegant at least they’re doing what they’re supposed to do, the same as they do when Shizuo isn’t fast enough to dodge the edge of Izaya’s knife. He closes up the awful wound in Izaya’s leg, moves up to remedy the one at his hip, the deep stab in his shoulder. There’s still too many more, but he picks and chooses, stitches shut two, three of the worst before giving up on the others. They’re clotted anyway, and he’s more concerned about keeping Izaya from actually bleeding out on his couch than he is preventing the evidence of scars.

By the time he finally lifts his head, Shizuo can feel his legs cramping from the awkward angle of leaning over the couch. But Izaya hasn’t moved, hasn’t so much as stuttered a breath or fluttered his eyelashes. Shizuo lingers a moment, staring to ensure Izaya’s not going to stir, before he gives up on what promises to be a lengthy wait and pushes to his feet.

The phone call comes next. It rings through to voicemail four times before there’s finally the click of connection, the wordless protest of a groan before Shinra’s voice says, “What’s going on?”

“Izaya Orihara’s unconscious on my couch,” Shizuo blurts. It seems the fastest way to catch Shinra up on the situation, and he’s too exhausted to form any sort of reasonable explanation.

“Oh.” Shizuo can hear Shinra blinking himself into attention in the pause before he continues. “What did he do to you this time?”

“It wasn’t  _me_.” Shizuo glances back at the couch, though Izaya is just as still as he was a moment ago. He walks into the bedroom anyway, lowers his voice enough that the words won’t carry. “He --” He’s exhausted, coming down off the rush of adrenaline into lethargy, but some unformed self-preservation still stops his words while he contemplates the best entry point to this story. “He was bleeding out in a goddamn  _alley_. I brought him back here. It was closer than your place.” It’s easy to invent rationality now that the panic of the moment has faded, convenient reasons rising to the surface of Shizuo’s thoughts. It’s far easier than considering the impulsive motion that took him directly home without considering other ramifications.

“Is he still bleeding?” Shinra sounds faintly bored and mostly tired.

“No.”

“Is he gonna die before the morning?”

“How the  _fuck_  am I supposed to know that? You’re the doctor here.”

“I’m not actually there, at the moment. He’s breathing and he’s not bleeding?”

Shizuo huffs, shuts his eyes and pinches at the bridge of his nose. “Yeah.”

“I’ll be over in the morning then.”

Shizuo’s eyes come open. “What? Shinra, you can’t --”

“Call me if he gets worse,” Shinra orders, and then the line goes dead.

“Fuck,” Shizuo says, clearly against the unresponsive mouthpiece, and then he tosses the phone onto the desk and considers the problem of his ruined clothes. He tugs his shirt free entirely, popping buttons free rather than bothering with unfastening them, wanders into the bathroom to find a towel. He wipes the sheen of red off his chest, splashes water up against the back of his neck before rinsing the cloth back to damp cleanliness and returning to the couch.

It’s easy to shove Izaya where he needs to be, twist his arms up so Shizuo can wipe the blood off his skin. It doesn’t do much for the swelling at his ribs -- that  _had_  to be a kick that broke those -- or across his cheek, and Shizuo has to go back four times to rinse the cloth, but by the time he’s done he can drag the bloodstained towel free and there’s just Izaya on his couch, wearing a lot less clothing than Shizuo ever expected and significantly more pale and battered than the blond thought would ever happen except at his own hands, but he’s still breathing, and he’s not bleeding anymore, and those are both a relief in a way Shizuo doesn’t think about too much.

It’s still a lot of skin to see, and a lot of uneven stitches. It’s that that pushes Shizuo to his feet again, that brings him back from the bedroom with one of his shirts in hand. It’s something of a trick to work Izaya’s arms into the sleeves, and the whole thing is overlarge even once it’s on, showing up the bony frailty of Izaya’s shoulders and waist and hips, but at least it covers him, mostly. Wrapped in the white of a clean shirt he looks better, only a little bruised and paler than he should.

Shizuo’s still staring at his face, watching the motion of air across Izaya’s mouth, when too-thin shoulders shift, Izaya’s throat draws tight around a groan, and that’s all the warning he gets before there’s a pair of crimson eyes staring back at him.

There’s a very long moment. Shizuo’s fingers itch for the distraction of a cigarette, the excuse of a smoky inhale to distract him from the unblinking attention of Izaya’s expression. But his hands are empty, there’s nothing when he takes a breath but air, and then Izaya blinks and Shizuo lets himself do the same, carefully, like Izaya might lunge at him if he’s too quick about it.

“Where’s your shirt?” Izaya’s fingers are touching the bottom of the white fabric around his shoulders, worrying at the hem like he’s as on-edge as Shizuo, but when Shizuo jerks his chin towards the corner it’s a long moment before Izaya looks away to follow his motion.

“Oh.” The laughter is more of a comfort than it ought to be, especially given the breathy cough that cracks it apart, but at least that has the ring of familiarity unlike any other part of this situation. “That’s a lot of blood.”

“Yours,” Shizuo clarifies, like it’s a competition. “Not mine.”

“Yeah.” Izaya rolls onto his back, tips his head to glance at Shizuo through his hair while his fingers drag the fabric of the shirt up over his hip. “This isn’t the scenario I pictured when I imagined you covered in blood.”

“I can’t believe I’m agreeing with you,” Shizuo growls, but he can’t muster any fire under the words. They fall flat into the weird stillness, hang there growing awkward and heavy until Izaya smiles, bright and quick so his teeth flash as he turns his head in towards Shizuo.

“What happened to my clothes?” His smile is bright but the words are weak; his fingers are shaking when Shizuo looks down to see them curled absently around the shirt. “Are you planning to take payment for your doctoring out of my body?”

Shizuo rolls his eyes, shoves at Izaya’s shoulder. He means it to be gentle but he overestimates Izaya’s condition or underestimates his own strength, can see the smile flicker into a grimace of pain as his fingers touch startlingly bare skin inside the too-big collar of his borrowed shirt. “If you think my shirt is bad you should see your own.”

“Yours looked like you murdered someone,” Izaya points out, and Shizuo snaps back with “Yours look like it was you who got killed.” He doesn’t mean to swing it back around to sincerity but as soon as he hears the words on his tongue he’s bracing for the silence, the shudder of quiet as Izaya’s eyes pull sideways and away again.

“I didn’t mean for you to save me.” The words are soft, almost a whisper. Shizuo doesn’t lean in, still skeptical about Izaya’s intentions even as wan and shaky as he appears. “I was just.” A hand comes up, flutters away explanations. “Letting you know.”

“Oh come  _on_.” Shizuo’s blood is burning, his hands forming into fists so strong he’s tearing at the skin of his palms without realizing. “Like I was just going to let you  _die_  in the street.” It seems absurd until he says it, until the recollection of dozens of fights and the scrape of knife edges, the burn of bullet wounds reminds him that  _Izaya_  would have left him to die,  _has_  left him to die on more than one occasion.

“Isn’t that what you want?” Izaya is smiling again, turning his head away towards the ceiling so Shizuo can just see the sharp half-formed curve of a smirk that’s not aimed at him at all, anymore. “You want me dead, out of your town and out of your life where I won’t be a bother anymore.” His smile cracks wider, the mania underneath turning his features into a mask of put-upon amusement. “You should have just left me.”

“Shut up.” Shizuo grinds his fingernails against his palms, tears the crescent shapes in his skin wider. “Just shut up, Izaya-kun.”

“I would probably be dead right now,” Izaya goes on, entirely ignoring Shizuo’s command. His fingers are trailing over his skin, pressing in against the raw edges of Shizuo’s stitches in his leg until Shizuo’s fingers twitch with desire to snatch the pressure away before he starts bleeding again. “Or at least unconscious in an alley. No one would come for me, you know.” He’s still smiling, faintly, like he’s not really listening to his own words, still picking unthinking at the pattern of stitches. “Pathetic, huh, that it’s my worst enemy who cares enough to save my life.”

“Shut  _up_.” Shizuo leans in, closes his hand on the collar of the shirt around Izaya’s shoulder. It leaves prints of red from his palms but he doesn’t notice in the first moment. “Just stop fucking  _talking_.”

“Shizu-chan.” Cold fingers touch his jaw, Izaya’s turning that smile on him and his voice is going teasingly soft. “I thought you were going to take advantage of the moment and  _kill_  me, not --”

“ _Shut up_.” Shizuo grabs at Izaya’s hair, closes his fingers into a fist on the dark tangle, and crushes his mouth to the other’s like he’s trying to steal the last of his breath away.

It does stop the flow of words, at least. Izaya goes as silent as if Shizuo has cut through his vocal chords directly, like the impact of lips against his has wiped out his usual taunting coherency. But then he’s parting his lips, opening his mouth wider in invitation, and Shizuo just wanted to get Izaya to stop  _talking_  but he’s not pulling away, he’s not  _refusing_ , and then he’s tasting the slick metallic burn of Izaya’s mouth and Izaya’s tongue is sliding against his lips and there are fingers at the bare skin of his shoulder, nails scraping so hard they’re probably drawing blood and Shizuo doesn’t care. He drags at Izaya’s hair, wrenches his head sideways, and he’s just getting a better angle on the other’s parted lips, just feeling his blood start to burn hot under his skin, when Izaya’s teeth close on his lip and there’s a flash-hurt of pain from tearing skin.

“ _Fuck_!” Shizuo jerks away, which is not the best decision -- the pull drags against the sharp edge of Izaya’s teeth, scrape pained friction over his lip before he’s free and staring down. Izaya’s eyes are dark and his lips are bright, stained red with the blood Shizuo can feel seeping over his tongue, and he’s starting to grin, razor-edged amusement before Shizuo can think to get his hand around his shoulder and dig the tips of his fingers in against the deep stab wound he just finished stitching shut.

Izaya arches up off the couch, his face dropping into breathless pain, and Shizuo pushes in against his mouth again, shoves him flat to the couch and holds him still by his hair. Izaya doesn’t move away when Shizuo lets his shoulder go so he can drag his fingers down over the texture of bones just under the surface of Izaya’s skin; he’s got his hand fisted in Shizuo’s hair, is pulling with what would be painful force if his limbs weren’t so shaking weak from blood loss. They both taste like blood, Shizuo can feel bruising and stitches under his fingers through the fabric of his shirt around Izaya’s body, and then he pulls back to take a breath and Izaya’s inhale catches audibly in his throat. When Shizuo blinks Izaya twists away, lets blond hair go in favor of angling his arm over his face. Shizuo is still trying to get his bearings, still touching his tongue to the burn of Izaya on his lips and staring at the thin wrist over Izaya’s eyes, when what he can see of the other’s mouth goes shaky around a breath and a sound alarmingly close to a sob spills from his throat.

Shizuo freezes. He can feel the ice of shock run through his veins, locking him in place and stopping his voice for a moment, wiping his thoughts blank and white. All he can do is stare wide-eyed as Izaya curls in against the side of the couch like he’s trying to escape being seen, presses his face into his elbow and starts  _choking_  on the sound of tears.

“Jesus christ.” Shizuo sounds as shocked as he feels, the words as cold on his tongue as his blood is in his veins. “Are you  _crying_?” He grabs at Izaya’s arm without thinking, pulls it away from the other’s face without even having to try, and Izaya tries to turn his face away but he  _is_ , even Izaya can’t possibly do such a good job of feigning the damp on his lashes and the shake at his mouth.

“Fuck,” Shizuo says, and then he’s moving, jerky and stiff with panic but too desperate to stay still. “ _Stop_ , jesus, stop  _crying_.” His fingers hit Izaya’s face, slide across the edge of his cheekbone to curl over his mouth, to dampen the worst of the coughing sobs coming up from the other’s throat. Izaya’s not looking at him, his eyes are shut tight with desperation, but Shizuo can’t stop staring, can’t pull his eyes away from the absolutely unprecedented sight of Izaya’s composure shattering.

“ _Stop_ ,” he says again, harsher this time like that will have more of an effect. He’s still got a hand in Izaya’s hair to match the one over his mouth, bracketing the other in place, but he can’t look away, can’t cover his eyes until he ducks his head to press his face into the hunched edge of Izaya’s shoulder. “ _Please_  stop,  _anything_  would be better than this.”

There’s a weak laugh, choking around sobs and the cover of his hand. Shizuo can still make out the words, the attempt at taunting under Izaya’s voice even as it falls flat. “So emotional manipulation is the way to get a rise out of you?” Izaya takes a breath, drags strength back into his words for a moment. “Good to know. I have to keep things exciting, I don’t want you to f-forget about me.” His voice breaks in the middle, teasing shattering into weird sincerity that shivers down Shizuo’s spine even before Izaya appends “Shizu-chan” in that awful broken tone.

“Shut up.” Shizuo settles his hand tighter over Izaya’s mouth to cut off his speech, shoves harder against Izaya’s shoulder with his forehead. “Just stop talking, Izaya-kun, stop  _crying_.”

It takes longer than he expects. He can hear Izaya trying to regain control, choking on the torn breaths in his throat and tensing his shoulders like he can force himself to calm down, but the shaking has the uncontrolled edge of a broken dam. Shizuo doesn’t ask for details -- he doesn’t  _want_  details, he didn’t want this to begin with -- but he doesn’t pull away when Izaya’s breathing starts to even off into hiccuping gasps, doesn’t lift his head even when the damp of the tears on his fingertips has dried into salt. There’s too much here, more than he is ready to touch or talk about now and probably ever, but wrapped in Shizuo’s shirt and breathing hot against Shizuo’s fingers Izaya seems almost human, and even once he’s caught his breath neither of them move away for a long time.


	2. Insurance

With Izaya in the other room, Shizuo is more than half-prepared to wake to a knife at his throat, or a fist crushing his nose, or a knee to his stomach. He contemplates whether he’ll wake at all, if Izaya would even bother giving warning to an enemy so spectacularly foolish as to let his guard down in sleep. But he isn’t prepared to stay up all night, and while he’s still contemplating tying Izaya’s wrists together the other drops off into unconsciousness on his couch. Shizuo  _knows_  Izaya is dangerous, can tongue the swelling bruise on his lip to remind himself if he starts to forget, but with Izaya’s eyes shut Shizuo can see the shadows under his lashes, markers of insomnia so dark they show up even against the red-purple of the bruise rising over what is probably a cracked cheekbone. His hands don’t look dangerous, anyway, just fragile and breakable and scratched raw from throwing bare-knuckle punches in a clearly unsuccessful attempt to defend himself. And he can’t move far, with the cracked ribs Shizuo is certain he has and the ugly deep wound in his leg. So Shizuo leaves him where he lies, retreats to his room and determines that if he sleeps through an attempt on his life, he probably deserved it anyway.

He wakes up to the sound of a crash.

He’s sitting up instantly, his excessive adrenaline sending him stumbling to his feet before his vision has even cleared into consciousness. Shizuo is swinging an arm to fend off potential attacks immediately, but he hits nothing but unresisting air. Then he realizes the sound was from the other room, not his, and also that he can hear the mumble of words through the locked door.

The sound clears into curses as he gets the door open, a low sustained thrum of sound Shizuo only recognizes as Izaya because there is no one else it  _could_  be. He’s not on the couch anymore, though he’s not standing either; he’s sprawled across the floor, alongside the upended coffee table, with his head tipped to the side and an arm clutched in tight against his side.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says, clear even from across the room, and then he tips his chin down, stares at Shizuo from under the shadow of his hair. “Fuck.” Louder, that, drawn out slow and forceful around the hurt in his voice. Shizuo can see his shut his eyes, the flash of his teeth as he forces a smile. “Shizu-chan.” It’s not a taunt -- it should be, is intended as such, but there’s no strength to the word, and as Shizuo takes a careful step forward he can see the taut pain across Izaya’s shoulders. “I knew I could lure you out.”

Shizuo takes another slow stride. There’s nothing in Izaya’s hands, no trace of a knife or a shard of glass or anything that could be a weapon, just the white-knuckled fists of agony and the hiss of desperate breath over his lips. “What the fuck were you doing?”

“Ah.” Izaya opens his eyes, tilts his head up to meet Shizuo’s gaze. His shoulders relax faintly, the effort it costs him to let the tension go written in the white at his lips and the shake in his eyes. “I thought I might have overstayed my welcome.” He gets a hand out, grabs at the edge of the coffee table to pull himself upright even though he flinches as he moves. “I want to maintain my good rapport with Shizu-chan.” There’s something pathetic in the shape of his grin, some missing sharpness that leaves only an imitation of the real thing. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll be on my way. I’ll even let you go without an injury, this time. A token of my goodwill.”

“You can’t fucking  _stand_ ,” Shizuo points out. Izaya’s sitting up, now, but he hasn’t let his hold on the edge of the table go, and he lets his gaze drop as Shizuo speaks. “You were just going to walk out of here?”

Izaya’s smile is a little more sincere, this time, though he’s still watching the wood under his fingers. “You’ve learned to understand English. Congratulations, I knew you had it in you.”

“Don’t be  _stupid_.” Shizuo leans down to grab at the shirt still wrapped around Izaya’s shoulders before reconsidering. He steps over the table instead, drops to his knees so he can drag Izaya closer by a two-hand grip on his shirtfront. Izaya does go, passively if not necessarily willingly; he might as well be inanimate for all the resistance he offers. “You can’t _walk_ , you’re  _hurt_  and you have to heal.” Izaya elbows him in the neck when he tries to take the other’s weight over his shoulder, but it lacks the force to do any real damage. Shizuo growls, hitches Izaya farther back so his elbows and chin and teeth are out of the way of the other’s face. Izaya makes a noise of protest, a strangled whine as Shizuo pushes to his feet and takes the full weight of his body, but he doesn’t kick or even really struggle as Shizuo carries him back to the bedroom.

“What would you even  _do_?” Shizuo asks without expecting any sort of real answer. The bed’s soft enough that he doesn’t hesitate to drop Izaya unceremoniously onto the mattress, even if it makes the other cringe and gasp at even that impact. He’s still trying to get to his feet, apparently ready to collapse to the floor again before he submits to lying back onto the bed, but Shizuo is expecting that, is climbing onto the bed next to him so he can exert the minimal effort needed to force Izaya down onto his back. “You can’t move, you can’t fight, you’re not even wearing anything but  _my_  shirt.” He hisses, shoves harder at Izaya’s hurt shoulder for good measure. “Besides, Shinra’s expecting to find you here in the morning, not collapsed out on the street somewhere. Don’t be a fucking idiot.”

“That’s true,” Izaya says. The shock of hearing agreement takes the power of irritation from Shizuo’s tongue, leaves him stunned into silence while Izaya pushes a hand over his own face before mustering a smile. “You gave me the shirt off your back. We can’t have Ikebukuro knowing how generous Shizu-chan is to his worst enemy.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo growls. “You’re more worried about what you’re wearing than whether that gang is gonna come after you again, at least my priorities are reasonable.”

He can see the smirk drop off Izaya’s mouth, the other’s lips fall into uncertainty until they match the shadows in his eyes. He looks like an ink drawing of a person in the dim light, even the life-blood red of his eyes faded off into black along with all the other colors in the room. “What  _are_  your priorities?” It sounds like a legitimate question for a breath, just long enough that Shizuo is considering responding sincerely; then there’s a flash of white teeth, Izaya shifts his hips, and the shadow of the shirt at his collarbone turns into something suggestive, a taunt and an offer rolled into one. “Drag me back to your bedroom like some sort of caveman and…?”

“Sleep,” Shizuo says. He closes his fingers on the line of white fabric, rumples the shadow out of alignment so it’s just a too-big shirt on a too-skinny frame again. “Just  _sleep_.”

“You’re so  _boring_ , Shizu-chan,” Izaya says, but his voice is weak, it lacks the teeth it usually has. He doesn’t push Shizuo’s arm away, even when Shizuo lets his weight drop down into the softness of the mattress under him on one side and the cutting edges of Izaya’s hip on the other. It’s a lot less comfortable than just the bed, especially with the constant hum of threat Izaya radiates, but Shizuo is tired enough that his limbs start to go heavy in spite of the discomfort, his thoughts start to drift almost immediately. Izaya doesn’t move at all; he might as well be a statue for how still he is, tension of pain or stress or both straining under his skin.

“Relax,” Shizuo mumbles into the pillow against his mouth. “I’m not going to hurt you when you’re like this.” A huge yawn catches him, interrupts his speech and arches into his shoulders for a minute. “Just  _sleep_ , Izaya-kun.”

There’s a shudder of motion, an irregular jerk through Izaya’s shoulders; for a moment Shizuo thinks he’s crying again, is ready to shove his hand over Izaya’s mouth to shut off the sound if he needs to. Then it forms into coherency, shapes itself around the edges of familiar laughter, and the rising edge of concern in Shizuo’s mind fades into calm.

“Just sleep,” Izaya repeats back. Something goes soft in his limbs, some of the stiff edge of his body relaxes into the mattress. Shizuo shifts his leg, fits his knee in around the edge of Izaya’s. He doesn’t even jump when Izaya tips his head sideways so his breath sighs warm against Shizuo’s neck. “You make it sound so easy.”

“It is easy,” Shizuo murmurs. He’s not thinking anymore, not editing his words at all along the route from his thoughts to his mouth. “Shut your eyes and relax.”

Izaya huffs a laugh again, but it’s faint, soft enough that Shizuo can ignore it and let the liquid darkness of sleep wash over him. The sound of the other’s breathing is still too-fast, edged with lingering pain and too anxious, but Shizuo doesn’t care if Izaya actually sleeps, so long as he’s not trying to take on the impossible task of walking out. The reassurance of the elbow digging into his ribs and the heat of breathing against his shoulder is enough, untangles his worry and smooths his own inhales so he can fall into the bone-deep comfort of sleep without ever opening his eyes to see the expression on Izaya’s face.


	3. Familiarity

Shizuo wakes up slowly.

It should be uncomfortable, to be curled around and half-atop Izaya’s sharp-edged frame. There’s a button pressed hard into his wrist, the pressure of fingers digging into his forearm, and instinct has brought Shizuo’s hand up high, where his thumb is settled in against the rapidfire flutter of Izaya’s pulse. Still, some deep-buried human reflex is telling him this is comfort, is spelling out companionship onto Izaya’s breathing even though Shizuo ought to know better, and it takes him a long time to drift up to proper consciousness enough to recognize the soft dark hair pressed against his lips.

“Mgh,” Shizuo finally says in approximation of a greeting. He has a leg twisted in over Izaya’s hip -- it must be pressing pain into that row of lopsided stitches he set himself -- but he doesn’t move for a minute, tries to get his bearings while he has Izaya pinned in place and more or less restrained. “What time is it?”

“Late,” Izaya offers helpfully. He sounds on the verge of laughter, amusement taut under his voice for all that Shizuo can hear the pain layered over the emotion. He’s tense, too; every point of contact between them is drawn tight with distaste, or panic, or pain; Shizuo can’t tell which, doesn’t know how to begin to separate the possible causes. Izaya tips his head sideways, brushes his hair against Shizuo’s mouth and angles his neck enough that the other can see the flutter of his eyelashes as he cuts his gaze sideways. “Do you usually stay in bed past noon?”

“I hate you,” Shizuo reminds him rather than responding to the rhetorical question. He doesn’t move away; he’s too close to sleep, still, for any real motion, and for all his sharp edges right now Izaya is remarkably warm.

“I hate you too,” Izaya croons. In his throat the words turn into ironic endearment, as if he’s declaring his undying love. He twists under Shizuo’s hold, not pulling away but just shifting his weight, and then his face is so close Shizuo has to lean back just to bring his eyes into focus on Izaya’s. It’s familiar enough, the expression his usual heavy-lidded amusement, but he’s far closer than he ought to be. Habit tells Shizuo to expect a knife, a punch, a kick, even though Izaya’s not moving at all and can’t possibly have a weapon beyond his own body; it’s still enough to send the first rush of adrenaline through Shizuo’s veins, to warm his body in preparation for a fight even while his thoughts are still trying to catch up to consciousness.

“You’re vulnerable when you’re asleep,” Izaya comments in an eerie echo of Shizuo’s own thoughts. Fingers dig into the blond’s chest, slide up against bare skin until there’s the clear outline of Izaya’s palm pressed flat over the thud of his heartbeat. “I don’t think you’re taking me seriously anymore, Shizu-chan.” Izaya’s fingers tighten, the edges of his fingernails catching at Shizuo’s skin, but the pain is easy to ignore, barely a flicker on Shizuo’s mental horizon. Far more of a concern is how  _warm_ Izaya’s touch feels, how close he’s pressed and how rapidly the rest of Shizuo’s body is coming awake under the glow of that contact.

Shizuo shifts back an inch, keeps Izaya safely pinned down but pulls his hips away enough that the heat starting to collect in his blood won’t become telltale from sheer proximity. He’s not sure this technique is effective in the end -- Izaya looks up at him, raises an eyebrow to match the twist of amusement at his mouth -- but Shizuo doesn’t wait for the other’s inevitable verbal attack before demanding, “Why did you call me?”

It’s more effective than he expects. Izaya’s expression falls away into wide-eyed shock, a hint of something that might be horror in someone else’s eyes; it’s uncanny to see him look so human, enough that Shizuo nearly regrets asking the question.

Then Izaya parries with “Why did you kiss me?” and all Shizuo’s sympathetic regret evaporates, every muscle in his body drawing tense and hyperaware of how  _close_  they are, how near Izaya’s crimson eyes are to his own.

“To shut you up,” he finally says after a pause that makes the blatant truth in the words sound like a lie.

Izaya’s eyebrow twitches upward again. This time he lets his smirk pull into a lopsided grin, wide enough that Shizuo can see the threat of his teeth behind his lips, and he says, “What was your question, again?”

The faux-innocence ought to tip Shizuo off. He knows Izaya never really sounds like that, not sincerely, and he knows better than to trust Izaya in anything. It’s not trust that brings the words back to his lips, though, but instead some combination of drowsiness and real curiosity and lack of attention to what he’s saying because he’s still trying to restrain the burn of adrenaline under his skin.

“Why did you --” is as far as he gets before Izaya leans in so fast Shizuo nearly reels back on reflex. But he can’t move any distance, and Izaya’s free arm is winding around his waist, and when the other’s lips hit his Shizuo loses whatever pretense to resistance he had to begin with. It’s not quite pleasant -- Shizuo’s lower lip is still swollen tender from the damage Izaya’s teeth did last night, and if anything Izaya is pressing harder into the injury, like he’s trying to draw a reaction from the blond. But Shizuo’s heart is pounding overfast under the scrape of Izaya’s fingers dragging down his chest, and the ache at his mouth is drowned out by the burn rising insistent into his blood, and when he closes his fingers at Izaya’s injured shoulder the other doesn’t pull away when he hisses his reaction. The sound opens his mouth under Shizuo’s in offer or accident, Shizuo’s not sure which, and he’s not sure if it’s intention or reflex that brings him leaning in closer, sliding his tongue into Izaya’s mouth to taste the lingering bitter of blood against his teeth. Izaya doesn’t bite him, which was Shizuo’s primary concern; he just shoves his free hand up against Shizuo’s chest, curls his fingers in bruising hard at the back of the blond’s neck to drag him in closer. He’s arching forward, too, sliding himself back in under Shizuo’s weight with more dexterity than the blond expected him to have, given his bruises and stitches. Shizuo doesn’t move, makes no attempt to help Izaya get in closer, but he doesn’t pull away either, and then Izaya arches his back and shifts in sideways, and he’s hissing at the pain of the movement but he’s also hard against Shizuo’s stomach, and Shizuo’s pulse is pounding deafeningly loud in his head.

He knows what this is. This is the dangerous level of adrenaline, the force that pushes him to tear through metal and crack concrete without thinking, the aggression that he is constantly waging war against. But this isn’t violence, it’s not the raw red of hate that Izaya usually wakes in him; it’s dark and smoky like the haze of the cigarettes he hasn’t bothered to quit, and when he shifts his weight up onto his knees and reaches down to Izaya’s hip his fingers are bracing instead of crushing. He could break the bones under his fingers; it wouldn’t even take any effort, with how thin they are under the taut line of Izaya’s skin. But he doesn’t push harder, just holds Izaya down to the mattress and rocks his weight down so he’s pressing himself in against the resistance of Izaya’s leg to match the friction against his stomach.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Izaya whines. Shizuo can feel the burst of air over his mouth; it falls into pace with Izaya’s fingers curling into a fist that settles in against Shizuo’s ribs. Shizuo can feel Izaya starting to shake under him, tension and adrenaline and probably some measure of pain quivering under his skin, and when Shizuo rocks down Izaya arches up, and for a moment they’re grinding against each other without any calculation at all. Shizuo’s breathing is catching high in his shoulders, Izaya is trembling like he’s lost control of his body, and at some point they stopped kissing entirely in favor of panting the overheated air just between their lips.

Shizuo shifts his weight, changes his angle, and when he presses in again Izaya slips sideways, the hot resistance of him catching in at the line of Shizuo’s hip. The motion startles Shizuo and drags a moan from Izaya, a whimper that’s almost faint enough that Shizuo doesn’t hear the “--chan” at the back of the other’s throat. But it’s too familiar to miss, centers in on exactly the associations that had vanished under the heat in his veins, and when Shizuo jerks back and blinks he remembers that it’s  _Izaya_  under him, that that desperate breathing is an  _enemy’s_.

Izaya shivers once, a tremor running through his entire body before his gaze clears and steadies enough that he’s actually meeting Shizuo’s stare. He looks wrong, his expression so unlike his usual smirking omniscience it’s hard even to align that with the open-mouthed breathlessness of his current state, hard to parallel the old knife scars with the press of knuckles against Shizuo’s ribs. But the struggle of that is enough to break whatever spell they were both under, enough that Shizuo shoves away, scrambling off the bed before Izaya recovers himself enough to protest.

“Fuck,” Shizuo says to himself, stumbling backwards over the floor while Izaya tries to sit up before hissing and grabbing at his ribs as his injuries protest. He twists sideways instead, curling in over himself on the sheets, and when he glares at Shizuo from the shadow of his hair at least the expression is one Shizuo can recognize.

“God _damn_  you, Shizu-chan,” he spits. The words are heavy with fury and arousal both, Shizuo can hear the ache of denied pleasure under the vowels. “What do I have to  _do_  to get you to fuck me?”

Shizuo isn’t ready for the mental image of that bursting into his thoughts, the crystal-clear fantasy coming as fully-formed as if he’d ever consciously considered it before. He doesn’t offer a coherent response beyond a groan, turns away from the burn of Izaya’s eyes and escapes from the room before he can hear more.

The shower doesn’t run cold enough for what Shizuo needs. The droplets hit him like ice and still his blood is rushing burning through his veins, he’s still as agonizingly hard as if there was no chill at all. He doesn’t turn the temperature up, just leans in against the wall so he can brace himself on his forearm and let the cold water pour over him while he closes his fingers on himself, strokes too-fast and too-hard like he’s trying to chase down the edge of pain. His thoughts are spinning, shock and realization hitting him harder than any physical injury while he tries to backtrack this to an origin he can’t find. He’s never thought about Izaya like this before, not deliberately, not  _consciously_ , but now that he reflects his fantasies have been running towards unnamed brunets, skinny shoulders and smirking mouths and it’s all looking like the same thing in retrospect. He doesn’t have to even shut his eyes to picture dark eyelashes and crimson eyes against insomniac-bruised skin, doesn’t have to imagine, now, to know what Izaya would look like with his lips bruised from kissing and his body shuddering with want. That’s as far as Shizuo gets before the fire in him twists tight, before he’s groaning and coming under the cold water and everything is Izaya, has  _always_  been Izaya as if he’s some fatal illness Shizuo contracted without even realizing it.

It takes almost a half hour before the cold finally settles deep enough for Shizuo to start shivering, and it’s another fifteen minutes before he can brace himself to turn off the water and reemerge into reality.


	4. Support

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Minor edit to stitch up the edge of a mended plot hole!

The shirt hits Shizuo in the face as soon as he steps through the bedroom door.

It’s more startling than painful, although the fabric has been carefully balled up and knotted together to make it as aerodynamic as possible. Still, there’s not that much weight to it, and Izaya lacks the strength to put any force behind it, so all that it succeeds in doing is drawing a grunt of surprise from Shizuo’s throat and a burst of adrenaline in his veins. Then the shirt hits the floor, and Shizuo blinks and there’s just Izaya watching at him from the bed.

“Welcome back,” he drawls, his voice so razor-edged Shizuo hesitates to come any closer. “Have a nice shower?” His bared skin is mottled purple and blue, darker now than it was yesterday and showing streaks of red across the stitches in a few places. “Did you think about me?”

Shizuo bends over to grab the bundle of fabric, throws it right back at Izaya instead of forming a convincing lie. Izaya ducks his head, takes the hit on his shoulder instead of his face, and comes up with his eyes still flickering dangerous crimson.

“You’re a fucking mess,” Shizuo says, betting his safety on Izaya’s current immobility and taking a few steps in. None of the blood looks fresh that he can see, but there’s dark flakes of dried color at Izaya’s shoulder and probably some along the worst wound in his leg still covered by the sheets.

“Thanks,” Izaya purrs, as if this is a compliment. “Aren’t you jealous that you weren’t the one to do it?”

“Shut the fuck up.” Insults notwithstanding, it’s still stomach-churningly hard to see the injuries shown up so clearly on Izaya’s skin, printed like ink over the too-sharp dip of his collarbone and the visible lines of his ribs. “What’s wrong with the shirt?”

“It’s a fucking mess,” Izaya echoes back, a corner of his mouth drawing up into a humorless smirk. “Don’t you wear anything  _normal_ , Shizu-chan?”

“You’d just get it dirty again.” Shizuo’s still staring at Izaya’s shoulder, the asymmetrical line of stitches set into his skin and the angry red around the injury. “You probably need a shower anyway.”

“You could have taken me with you.” Izaya is smiling properly now, the expression spreading wide across his whole face. “I might drown on my own, after all.”

“Fuck you,” Shizuo says. He can’t muster any real heat, and besides he can see Izaya’s shoulders starting to shake from the effort of sitting up. It saps whatever threat Izaya normally poses until Shizuo is willing to cross the rest of the distance to the bed. Even when he’s close enough to grab, Izaya doesn’t move; he keeps his hands limp on the bed, just tips his bruised face up so he can watch Shizuo with that smile lingering at his lips. This close Shizuo can see the blood matting his hair together across his forehead, the smudges of dirt along his jawline.

“Don’t move,” he warns, and reaches out for Izaya’s shoulders.

Izaya moves immediately, so quick Shizuo jerks back before he can see that there’s no knife in the other’s hand, that he’s just holding an arm out and raising an eyebrow at the blond’s reaction.

“Just trying to help.” His teeth flash white, a quick slash of amusement. “I don’t particularly like leaving you the option of dropping me if the impulse strikes.”

“I’m not going to  _drop_  you,” Shizuo growls, but he takes a step back in anyway. Izaya moves more slowly this time, hooking his arm around Shizuo’s neck so he can brace his fingers against the other’s shoulder and counterbalance his weight while Shizuo lifts him from the bed.

“You’re too fucking skinny,” Shizuo points out as he heads for the living room. Izaya’s hip is digging into his stomach, the edge of his shoulderblade is knife-sharp against his arm. “Don’t you ever eat?”

“Are you worrying about me?” Izaya asks, tipping his head in so his forehead bumps Shizuo’s cheekbone.

“You  _hurt_.” Shizuo shifts his grip, pulls Izaya up a little higher to change the angle. It helps, a little. “You’re giving me bruises.”

Izaya laughs. It’s too loud, too close to Shizuo’s ear even before there’s the scrape of teeth against his jawline.

“ _Fuck_.” Shizuo jerks away, shifting his weight so sharply he nearly stumbles at the door to the bathroom. “Do you want to crawl instead?”

“I didn’t ask you to carry me,” Izaya points out, but he keeps his arm around Shizuo’s shoulders, leans heavy on the support as his feet hit the floor and he tries to steady out his weight. For a minute Shizuo thinks he won’t manage; then Izaya reaches out for the wall, closes his fingers at the doorway, and lets his weight lean against the wall instead. His fingers are white-knuckled, his arm and legs shaking with the effort, but he’s not looking at Shizuo, his mouth is set in determination without even a trace of amusement under it.

“You really are going to drown,” Shizuo points out, unwilling to walk away when Izaya looks like his legs might give out at any moment.

Izaya doesn’t look at him, but his lips crack into a smile that doesn’t come anywhere close to his eyes. “Are you making an offer?”

“A prediction,” Shizuo snaps, and Izaya huffs a tiny breathless laugh.

“Go and get me clean clothes, Shizu-chan,” he orders, waving his free hand as if to shoo Shizuo away.

It’s maddening, to be told to do what he was going to do already, especially when the options are to obey and leave or linger awkwardly where he is. Shizuo growls and turns to the other room, half-intending to not come back at all. It’s not until he’s actually in the bedroom that he realizes Izaya has managed to avoid an audience as he makes his way into the shower itself. The thought brings him up short, nearly gets him to turn around, but if Izaya doesn’t want to be seen struggling Shizuo  _really_  doesn’t want to see him. So instead he stalls over the clothes, ruffles through his usual white uniform shirts before finally grabbing an old t-shirt with a logo worn soft and unreadable with years of washings across the front. Pants are harder until he tracks down an pair of sweatpants forgotten at the very bottom of the dresser drawer; they’ll be too big on the other, but at least that will be less obvious than jeans or slacks would be. The water’s running by the time he makes it back to the bathroom to deposit the clothes just inside the door.

“Are you dead yet?” he calls, loud enough to be heard over the splash of the water.

The pause in response is longer than he expects, so long there’s the first cold trickle of fear in his blood before Izaya’s laugh shivers through the damp air. “Not yet.” There’s the sound of weight hitting the side of the shower, a hiss so soft Shizuo barely catches it. “Your stitches are uneven.”

“Fuck you, Izaya-kun,” Shizuo sighs. He turns his back to the bathroom, lets his shoulders hit the wall so he can slide down to sit on the floor. “At least you’re not bleeding.”

For a minute there’s just the sound of running water. Shizuo stares out unseeing at the living room, the shape of familiar furniture vague distraction for his eyes while he listens for some sort of indication of crisis from around the corner.

“Are you planning to just hover there?” Izaya calls.

Shizuo blinks, can feel his cheeks burn warm with self-consciousness. “Can you even stand?” he shoots back rather than answering.

“I can manage.” There’s the sound of another impact, a cut-off gasp of reaction. “I’ve had worse.”

“ _Have_  you?” Shizuo asks, startled into sincerity, and Izaya’s laugh is bright enough that it shatters off the echo of the bathroom.

“Not remotely.” The water turns off. Shizuo stays where he is, doesn’t so much as flinch even though with the lesser noise he can hear the strain of Izaya’s breathing as he makes his way out of the shower, the soft thud as he sits down on the bathroom floor. “Careful, Shizu-chan, you’re starting to sound like you care.”

Shizuo doesn’t have a response to that, can’t muster the effort for the anger a proper answer would require and isn’t sure what sincerity would taste like even in his own head. Without a reply Izaya goes quiet too; there’s just the rustle of fabric, the occasional hiss of effort, and then a shadow falls across Shizuo’s line of sight and he looks up.

Izaya’s leaning on the doorway again, more heavily this time, his whole body tipped in until his shoulder is pressed to the edge. The t-shirt is big on him, hanging off his shoulders and nearly to his elbows in the sleeves, but the sweatpants are worse, rolled up what must be inches and knotted over at the waist until they’re barely staying up.

“Those are too big,” Shizuo says.

“Really?” Izaya is smirking at him again, managing a smile even though his lips are white with the effort of standing. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Shizuo doesn’t mean to laugh. The amusement bursts from him against his will, before he has the option to hold it back; he just sees Izaya’s eyes blink wider before he looks down and away. Shizuo turns it into a cough as soon as he can, pushes to his feet to regain the advantage of height. Izaya tips his head up to track his face, is still smiling like he’s cradling a secret when Shizuo looks back down at him.

“Come on.” Shizuo jerks his head towards the couch. “I’ll call Shinra and see if he can be bothered to come over now that it’s daylight hours.”

“Caring,” Izaya lilts, sing-songy and teasing, but he doesn’t hesitate before he reaches out to close his fingers hard on Shizuo’s shoulder, and Shizuo doesn’t flinch away from the contact before he takes Izaya’s weight to carry him the few feet to the couch.


	5. Teasing

“This is the most uneven stitching I’ve ever seen.”

Shizuo tilts his head back against the wall, stares fixedly at the ceiling and carefully  _doesn’t_  crush the as-yet unlit cigarette in his fingers. “Thanks for the professional opinion, Shinra.”

“I tried to tell him.” That’s Izaya, amusement painted so audibly under his voice that Shizuo doesn’t have to look at him to know the other’s eyes are fixed on his features. The cigarette crumples in his grip. “Apparently a steady hand isn’t among Shizu-chan’s  _many_  skills.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Shizuo tosses the ruined remains of the cigarette towards the couch, but the projectile is too light to fly any distance. It scatters shreds of tobacco across the floor instead. “I’m not a damn doctor, at least you’re not dead.”

“You probably did save his life,” Shinra comments. Shizuo knew that -- it shouldn’t be a shock to hear it from another source -- but the level declaration still burns along his spine with something electric. He can’t decide if it’s discomfort or pleasure at the statement that is winning out, doesn’t take the time to consider the distinction before he’s shoving the thought away.

“Shizu-chan just couldn’t stand the idea of someone else killing me,” Izaya purrs. Shizuo doesn’t bother forming a retort. It’s an easier explanation than anything else, really. He doesn’t realize his silence is its own sort of admission until the rustle of Shinra unwrapping bandages pauses. When he looks up the doctor is watching him, his head tipped to the side like Shizuo is some kind of interesting puzzle he’s solving in his head.

“What?” Shizuo growls. It’s not really that angry -- he can’t muster that much frustration for Shinra himself, just the secondhand bleed-over from Izaya’s presence. He doesn’t look at the other pair of eyes fixed on his face.

Shinra looks away, back at his hands. Shizuo can see the start of a smile at his lips before he lifts a hand to push his glasses farther up his nose. “I’m just going to use some antiseptic on these and wrap them up in case they bleed again,” he says, like either of them are listening. Izaya is still staring at Shizuo and Shizuo is carefully not looking at Izaya and seeing nothing at all as a result. “You’re going to have to take it easy for another few days, though.”

“Are you listening, Shizu-chan?” Shizuo glances back at the other without thinking. Izaya’s smirking at him, tilting his head so far to the side his hair is brushing the pale line of his shoulder. “We’ll have to keep our duel on hold for a while still.”

“You should consider staying here longer, too,” Shinra continues, as if Izaya has said nothing at all. Shizuo’s attention snaps back to him instantly; even Izaya looks back to stare at the top of Shinra’s bowed head. “Everyone knows where you live. If you turn up miraculously alive before whoever did this to you forgets about your presence, Shizuo’s nursing might not be enough to save you.”

“I’m not  _keeping_  him here,” Shizuo protests. “How long are you talking about, Shinra?”

There’s the motion of a shoulder, a lopsided shrug while Shinra remains focused tugging at the bandages. “He’ll probably be able to move in a day or two, but it depends on how angry you made them.”

Izaya’s laugh has no real humor in it at all, just the sharp grate Shizuo is learning to recognize as forced. “ _Very_.”

Shinra waves a hand. “You two can sort it out.” There’s a tearing sound, the thin fabric of a bandage giving way, and then he’s getting up and Shizuo is too, scrambling to his feet and moving to block the door.

“Wait,” but Shinra’s jumbling tools and wrappings together into his bag, moving towards the door without even pausing for Izaya to pull his shirt back on over his clean-wrapped injuries. “Wait, no, hang on, you’re telling me I have to  _keep_  him here?”

Shinra tips his head up. The light catches off his glasses, turns them opaque for a moment. “If you want to be generous, give him a day until he can walk again.” He pauses, glances back. Izaya’s not bothering with a shirt, is leaning over the back of the couch with one arm angled over it so he can rest his head on the back of his wrist. He  _does_  look better, with the dark lines of stitches and the red of his injuries wrapped in white. “Though he  _has_  tried to kill you several times.” Shinra turns back, his mouth tugging into a lopsided grin. “I wouldn’t blame you for a lack of sympathy if you didn’t feel like charity.”

“Stop ignoring me,” Izaya shouts from the couch. “I can take care of myself.”

“Like  _hell_  you can,” Shizuo starts, but Shinra’s still watching him, his eyes dark and his mouth twisting on personal amusement, and whatever Shizuo might have said vanishes on his tongue.

“Just shut up, Izaya-kun.” he finishes weakly. “Thanks, Shinra. Tell Celty I said hi.”

“Of course.” Shinra looks back, lifts a hand in farewell; Izaya wiggles his fingers in minimal response, and then Shinra is tugging the door open and moving away down the hall.

“You’re cute when you worry about me, Shizu-chan,” Izaya says, so quickly the door hasn’t yet clicked into place to keep his words inside. Shizuo growls, his fingers clenching involuntarily on the door handle, doesn’t turn around.

“I’m not  _worried_.”

“Of course you aren’t.” There’s a rustle of movement, a mostly-muffled hiss of reaction; when Shizuo glances back Izaya’s leaning farther over the couch, sitting up as straight as he can manage without moving his legs. “That’s why you dragged me back to your room last night to keep me from leaving on my own. Because you’re  _not_  worried.”

“Don’t confuse my behavior with your  _fantasy_ ,” Shizuo snaps.

He means it to be off-hand. It feels like a weak response in his own head, tastes flimsy and see-through on his tongue. But whatever flush of color was in Izaya’s cheeks drains away, leaves him as ghost-pale as he was the night before, and even his perpetual smile slips for a moment before he can drag it back into place.

“Ah, Shizu-chan, you’ve seen right through me.” Izaya swings his arm back over the couch, turns his shoulders away from the door. “I knew I couldn’t hide from you forever.”

He’s trying for irony. Shizuo can hear the effort in his voice, the attempt at taunting absurdity under the words. But his memory is offering up the hysterical tears of the night before and the mocking  _starting to sound like you care_  of this morning, and Izaya’s twisting away and collapsing to curl against the couch where Shizuo can’t see him, and the room feels like a cage with bars Shizuo can’t shatter.

He can’t even muster the maturity to resist slamming the door on his way out.


	6. Revenge

It’s well after sundown by the time Shizuo comes back home.

He’s exhausted, more drained than injured; running on adrenaline for any length of time is easy when it’s occurring but hard after, when the toll on his body comes back around. At least he didn’t break any bones in this particular project; that’s something to be appreciated, even if his knuckles are torn bloody and blue-bruised from connecting with the resistance of too many bodies.

He’s been keeping his thoughts clear all day, not looking too closely at his motivations or what it is, exactly, he’s spent the afternoon doing. It’s been easy to not-think of Izaya, easy to keep his thoughts so clear of the other’s presence that he is sincerely startled when there is a voice as he pushes the door open.

“I hope that’s you, Shizu-chan.” Izaya’s still on the couch, where he was when Shizuo left; Shizuo can see the sharp curve of his shoulders from the doorway, although the other doesn’t turn around to look at him. “There is no way I can adequately defend myself from an intruder.” It’s only then he tips his head, leans back so he can tilt his chin up and look at the blond upside-down. “Oh good.” He lifts a bite of something to his lips, pauses to swallow before he continues. “Do you usually leave your door unlocked? I never thought to try it, before, but if there’s not even a bolt to stop me --”

“No,” Shizuo cuts him off. He steps forward, kicks the door shut carefully so he doesn’t accidentally shatter the frame like he did last time. “I’ll be doubly sure not to now that you’ve mentioned it.”

“Ah, Shizu-chan.” Izaya flashes his teeth in what might be a smirk on someone else. “As if locks can keep me away from you.”

“Shut up,” Shizuo says. It tastes almost like a habit on his tongue. “What are you eating?”

“Bread.” Izaya straightens, curls back in over the couch. “Since you left me here to starve I helped myself to the easiest thing you had. Do you live exclusively on  _ramen_?”

“And bread.” Shizuo kicks his shoes off at the door, tugs the knot of his tie loose as he comes across the floor to where Izaya is stretched on the couch. He has the remnants of a loaf of bread in front of him, is lying so he takes up the entire couch by the technique of draping himself over every potential space like a cat determined to cause as much inconvenience as possible. Izaya looks up at his face as the blond comes into his line of vision; then his gaze drops to Shizuo’s bruised knuckles, and Shizuo can see the realization flicker behind his eyes before he can pull his smile back into place.

He didn’t really think he could get away with keeping this a secret, anyway.

“What did you do?” Izaya purrs in imitation of his usual unconcern. Shizuo doesn’t need to look at his eyes to know the amusement in his throat doesn’t touch them, to know that the hand that grabs his and pushes too-hard against damaged skin is a deliberate attempt to get a reaction out of him. “Fighting with someone not me, Shizu-chan, I’m hurt.”

Shizuo doesn’t hiss at the ache under his skin. He’s gotten far worse from Izaya in the past; this is tame, nearly affection in comparison. “Very funny.” He drags at his hand but Izaya grabs at his wrist, holds tight enough that Shizuo will pull him off the couch if he keeps moving, and that stalls him for a moment.

“What did you do,” Izaya says, more softly this time. He’s not looking up, there’s no laughter in his voice at all. With his hair falling over his face Shizuo can’t see his eyes, can only barely make out the frustrated downward curve of his mouth.

“It doesn’t matter.” Shizuo tugs again. He’s not surprised when Izaya crushes his thumb against bruises to press them into flaring pain, clenches his fingers to dig his nails against the tender skin at the inside of Shizuo’s wrist.

“ _It does_ ,” he says, and Shizuo has never heard that tone in Izaya’s voice before, dark and cutting sharper than a knife would without any trace of amusement to numb the impact.

“I solved a problem for you,” Shizuo says, and his voice has never been this even before while talking to Izaya. “No fucking way I’m keeping you here any longer than I have to.”

The fingernails against his skin dig in harder. They might be drawing blood; Shizuo isn’t sure, under the bruising pressure.

“ _Fuck_  you, Shizu-chan,” Izaya says, careful with each word. “I don’t need your help.”

“You fucking  _called me_ ,” Shizuo spits. His hand is curling into a fist, the leading edge of adrenaline pushing him towards a fight even though he doesn’t want this, not now, not even for Izaya. “You  _did_  need my help.”

“You could have--” Izaya starts.

“ _No_ ,” Shizuo shouts, and it’s louder than he intends, his arm is starting to shake with resisting the urge to lash outand Izaya’s hold is definitely starting to ache with the hurt of bleeding, now. “I  _couldn’t_  have, what’s  _wrong_  with you that you thought I was going to just  _let you die_?”

Izaya laughs without lifting his head. It sounds like razors tearing in his throat. “You were  _supposed_  to. I would have left  _you_.”

“ _I’m not you_.” Shizuo jerks at his hand, trying to reclaim his arm, but Izaya maintains the vicegrip of his hold and slides off the couch instead. Reflex throws out Shizuo’s hand to grab at the other’s shoulder, to hold him off the floor, but his balance is wrong, even Izaya’s minimal weight is enough to topple him forward. His head cracks against the edge of the couch, Izaya bites off a wail of hurt as he hits the floor, but his hand  _still_  hasn’t loosened its grip, it’s twisting Shizuo’s arm awkwardly between them.

“I’m not you,” Shizuo repeats, clinging to the statement through the dizzy pain radiating out through his head. Someone’s breathing hard, whimpering on each exhale, and at a great distance Shizuo realizes that’s Izaya under him, that he’s pinning him too hard to the floor under his weight. He gets his free hand out, braces it on the floor and pushes himself up so he can blink his gaze back into focus on Izaya’s face while he reaches for the rest of that thought. “Stop pretending that you  _know_  me.”

“I knew what you were doing today,” Izaya says. He doesn’t look angry -- his eyes are skimming over Shizuo’s features, his mouth twisted around pain instead of frustration -- but his fingers are digging deeper, grinding out injury into Shizuo’s skin. “I  _knew_  you were going to play a fucking  _white knight_ , go and get  _revenge_  for me as if you  _care_. I don’t need to be  _saved_.”

Shizuo doesn’t realize he’s going to laugh until the amusement is spilling from his lips. “There’s nothing in you worth saving even if I wanted to.” He takes a breath, blinks at the shadow in Izaya’s eyes. “I just want to get you out of my fucking house sooner.”

Izaya stares up at him, his mouth a flat line bare of any of his usual commentary. “That’s it.”

There’s no danger at all. Izaya is flat on his back, one hand empty and open at his side and the other drawing blood from Shizuo’s wrist. There is no reason at all for the sense of thrumming panic in Shizuo’s veins, this breathless sense of gasping for air before the impact of a wave. “Yeah.”

Izaya’s mouth curves up, very faintly and just at one corner, turns into a lopsided grin eerily soft on his features. “You’re a fucking idiot, Shizu-chan.”

Shizuo lets his elbow drop to lower him a little closer to the rhythm of breathing in Izaya’s shoulders. “Yeah,” he says, and “I know,” and then he’s pressing his lips against Izaya’s as the other shuts his eyes and starts to smile in anticipation. He opens his mouth right away, this time, and the weird metallic scent that always smells so  _wrong_  laid over the city tastes like magnetism on Shizuo’s tongue. Izaya’s warmer than he ought to be, careful with his teeth so they only scrape instead of tear; Shizuo licks at his lower lip and the fingers digging into his skin go gentle, slip in the trickle of blood they’ve drawn until the movement feels almost like a caress.

Shizuo’s head still hurts. Every heartbeat is thudding in the bruise at his temple like a tiny starburst of pain, and he’s starting to tremble from the effort of holding his weight off Izaya, and his fingers are aching too, now, delayed reaction to the abuse he gave them earlier. But Izaya is arching up off the floor to meet him, and Shizuo can feel the shudder of pain the movement brings with it but he’s still  _trying_ , doesn’t stop until Shizuo lets his hips drop lower to pin Izaya to the floor, to give him something to press against. Izaya’s fingers come up, dig into a fist in his hair like he’s afraid Shizuo will leave again, as if he has the strength to keep the blond here. The aggression in his touch is familiar, as much a comfort as the edge of a blade would be; it gives Shizuo something to anchor himself on, when he shoves Izaya’s hair back from his face, twists his aching wrist finally free of the other’s hold so he can slide it down over Izaya’s bandaged ribs.

He lets his mouth drop, ducks in lower to lick against the other’s jawline. Izaya’s hand slides over his face, trailing the sticky mark of drying blood caught against his fingertips, but he’s tipping his head back too, and with his mouth uncovered Shizuo can hear how hard the other is breathing. He tastes like antiseptic, cool and sterile and inhuman, and then his thumb slides against Shizuo’s lips and that’s blood, that’s as familiar as the dull ache of fingers pulling at his hair. Shizuo turns his head in, sucks the red off Izaya’s skin, and shoves his hand down hard so he can press his fingertips in under the edge of borrowed sweatpants.

Izaya’s warmer still under the cover of his clothing; the chill on his skin from the night before is gone, leaving just flushed heat almost reminiscent of humanity. There’s the top edge of a bandage around his thigh, high up around the stitches Shizuo set into his skin; he can feel Izaya shudder at the touch, shift his weight in silent encouragement, but Shizuo’s already tracing in sideways, catching his fingertips on the dip of Izaya’s hip before his injured wrist brushes the heat of the other’s cock.

Shizuo’s already pressing against him. There’s the weight of his hips, the pressure of his leg and his own erection digging down against Izaya, but the skin-on-skin contact is enough to draw a shuddering gasp from Izaya’s throat, to bring him rocking up while his fingers in Shizuo’s hair drag down. It pulls Shizuo off-balance, slides his mouth off skin so he’s just panting against the line of Izaya’s shoulder instead, but he lets the motion drag him down, shuts his eyes so he can focus on closing his fingers around the heat under his palm and dragging up.

Izaya groans, sharp and pained as if Shizuo has hit him. “ _Fuck_ , Shizu-chan, be  _gentle_ ,” but Shizuo can feel the rush of blood flushing Izaya harder under his touch in contradiction to the other’s words. He shifts his grip, strokes up again, and Izaya gasps and shudders like all the air is leaving his lungs. The hand at Shizuo’s hair jerks sharp and hard, pulls a hiss of pain from his lips, but he’s moving faster, the heat under his fingers and low in his stomach rushing him to a conclusion before some inevitable crisis strikes. Izaya is choking, whining on every exhale as Shizuo strokes over him, and Shizuo doesn’t realize he’s rocking down in instinctive reaction to Izaya’s breathing, matching every gasp with a motion of his hips. It’s not enough friction on its own to take him over the edge, but it’s enough to haze his thoughts out-of-focus, to let him hover in a single point of hesitance as long as they are both thrumming with unsatisfied tension.

It doesn’t last long enough. Shizuo is pulling too hard, he knows he is, too hard and too fast, and it’s only a few minutes before Izaya gasps a breath and shudders himself into boneless pleasure under Shizuo’s weight. All the tension flickers out of him for a moment, even the hand pulling at Shizuo’s hair goes gentle, and when Shizuo raises his head he can see Izaya’s features warm and languid in the first wave of instinctive satisfaction. It’s odd to see him so vulnerable, the line of his throat laid bare and relaxed as he gasps for air, and Shizuo has a tiny flicker of premonition, some instinct seeing the crisis coming in the moment before Izaya sighs, and blinks his eyes open, and tips his chin to meet Shizuo’s gaze.

Everything hovers in the balance for a moment -- Shizuo can feel it, the tension still stark along his back awaiting some reaction in Izaya’s eyes. He lets his hold go, drags his sticky palm against Izaya’s hip until he has an approximation of cleanliness, and Izaya is still staring at him, his eyes wide and dark and heavy with pleasure.

Then he smiles, sudden and sharp, and self-preservation kicks in, sends Shizuo shoving back and away faster than Izaya can grab for him. The loose hold on his hair slides free, he pushes at Izaya’s shoulder to keep him on the floor while he scrambles back and away, and Shizuo is getting to his feet while Izaya is pushing up on an elbow, starting to say “ _Shizu_ -chan” in a tone that is as much protest as it is plea.

“That’s what you wanted,” Shizuo says, taking a step backwards. Izaya is glaring at him, his hair as rumpled as his clothes and his eyes as dangerous as Shizuo has ever seen them. “We’re  _done_ , now.”

“ _Don’t think you know me_ ,” Izaya growls, his voice dropping into some low, grating register Shizuo’s never heard from him. “Don’t you  _dare_  pretend this is just about me.”

“Shut  _up_ ,” Shizuo shouts, loud enough to drown out the weird resonance of Izaya’s voice. “Shut the  _fuck_  up, Izaya-kun.”

“Don’t  _call_  me that,” Izaya snaps, and that brings Shizuo up short, stops his words and his motions together for a moment. “ _Shizu-chan_.”

For a breath they are both still, Izaya trembling with the effort of sitting and the aftershocks of pleasure and Shizuo taut through and through with anger and arousal and adrenaline all spilling together into a single knot of tension.

Then “We’re  _done_ ,” he hisses, and turns to retreat to the bedroom, locks the door in his wake before he fumbles his pants open, leans forward to press his forehead against the doorframe and jerk off quick and rushed and messy. He smears his fingers and stains his pants and in the end it’s not even enough relief, it does nothing at all for the terror of epiphany in the back of his head. It’s too much, too big and messy to get his head around, and he can’t go back out to face the echoing silence on the other side of the door. Instead he strips down to bare skin, leaves his uniform in a tangle on the floor for the first time in his life, and throws himself into bed in the vain hope exhaustion will help him find sleep. It doesn’t. It’s hours before he manages to rest, and even then his dreams are half-formed, full of nightmares and panic for reasons he can’t name.

When he wakes up the next morning, Izaya is gone.


	7. Trust

The next two weeks are the quietest Shizuo can recall. He knows there must have been peace in his life, years and years before, before the knife-scar across his chest and the burn of Izaya in his city, but it’s been years since he had such calm in his life. The air even lacks the thrumming electricity of anticipation, the calm before a thunderstorm that has been the closest to relaxation Shizuo has had in recent years.

He doesn’t know what happened to Izaya, other than that he assumes the other continues to survive. It’s impossible to imagine Izaya dead, even after very nearly seeing it close-up, and the city doesn’t feel like it’s missing something, just that there’s an absence of an infection, the satisfaction of half-forgotten health. Shizuo tried calling Izaya’s phone, or at least the number he had stored for him, but it offers an emotionless apology and an announcement that  _that number is no longer in service_ , and Shizuo isn’t even surprised.

He doesn’t dream. He sleeps without nightmares and clear through the night, and during the day everything is calm and peaceful and easy, the way he’s always wanted it to be. The city smells clean and Shizuo can smile, when he remembers to, and he can feel this life reaching out for him, curling around him like the comfort of a blanket on a cold day, easing away the tension lingering in his shoulders like the last aftertaste of Izaya’s presence. But when he gets home he pours himself a drink without thinking, collapses boneless onto the couch until he can convince himself to lie down and let sleep take him into an oblivion so deep it feels like dying before his time.

There’s nothing special about this night in particular, no reason for him to jerk awake in the black hours of true nighttime with his heart pounding with days worth of underutilized adrenaline. The room is dim and silent but for the hiss of Shizuo’s own breathing against the sheets; even the blur of noise from outside his window has dimmed to nothing, the late hour turning down the perpetual volume of the city. There is no reason at all for him to be awake, less so with his entire body tense like he’s in the middle of a war.

Then he takes a breath, and his tongue burns with the familiar bite of metal, and everything makes sense all at once.

He sits up all at once, pivoting to get his back against the wall while he tries to pick a person’s shape from the shadows around him. He blinks hard, waits for his vision to adjust; then there’s movement alongside the door, pale not-shadows resolving into the line of a collarbone and the shape of a face, and Izaya steps forward across the floor, his hands hidden in the weight of his coat.

“Shizu-chan.” Shizuo knows that voice, the steady pull of taunt under the words and the iron control framed stiff around the tone. It’s missing the eerie tremble he has in his most recent memories, absent the accidental insight into Izaya’s self that Shizuo glimpsed before. It’s not exactly the same as it would have been before -- Shizuo’s not bleeding yet, for one thing -- but Izaya’s also not moving quite right, there’s a limp to his motion that he can’t entirely disguise as he moves closer and comes to stand at the edge of the bed.

“What are you doing here?” Shizuo finally asks, when Izaya is close enough that his spine is prickling with the promise of danger, his veins nothing but adrenaline ready for a fight.

He can see the white of Izaya’s teeth when he smiles, the sideways flicker as he tips his head. “Returning your clothes.” He jerks his head back towards the other room. “They’re on the couch.”

“What are you doing in my  _room_?”

A shrug, the flutter of eyelashes in the shadows. “It seemed a waste to pick your lock and not make the most of my time here.”

“To do  _what_?” Shizuo asks, and he lunges at the shadow Izaya is making at the edge of the mattress. He moves quickly, as fast as he can manage and with as little warning, and even so he’s expecting Izaya to dart back with the whiplash reflexes he’s always seen in the city streets. He’s almost right. Izaya starts to jerk away, dodging the grab at his coat the way he would dodge a streetsign or a vending machine, but his injured leg doesn’t obey as rapidly as his reflexes try to move. Shizuo’s hand closes on a solid handful of jacket, and Izaya is falling before the blond can decide what to  _do_  with this hold, so what was intended as a drag becomes a catch instead, Shizuo holding Izaya’s balance for a few brief seconds before Izaya can get his left hand up and clenched around the blond’s wrist to steady himself.

“Not the welcome I was hoping for,” he says, but his voice is cracking into uncertainty, and his grip on Shizuo’s wrist is too-tight, his fingers are pressing bruise-hard against the other’s skin.

“What  _were_  you hoping for?” Shizuo demands, and drags at Izaya’s coat. The other hisses in protest but he’s slipping over the bed, barely managing to get himself turned around so he’s on his knees on the sheets by the time Shizuo lets him go. They’re closer now, well within the range of danger, but Shizuo can see Izaya’s face, now, or at least better than he could, and proximity is as much as advantage for him as it is for the other.

Izaya smiles at him again, the curve lingering at his lips but not touching his shadowed eyes at all. “What would you rather hear, Shizu-chan?” His fingers loosen on Shizuo’s skin, trail up against bare skin to his shoulder, brush against the thin fabric of undershirt. “That I came to kill you?” Fingernails scrape the back of Shizuo’s neck, map out the shape of his spine under his skin. Shizuo deliberately doesn’t let himself shiver. “That I came to fuck you?” Izaya is leaning in closer, he’s right inside Shizuo’s personal space, and Shizuo can taste the danger on his tongue and can feel it burning hot with recognition under his skin. Izaya dips his head so low even without clear sight of his eyes Shizuo knows he’s looking at the blond’s mouth. “Maybe I just missed you, Shizu-chan.”

Shizuo coughs a laugh. “Yeah, as much as I missed you.”

He means it as sarcasm. He doesn’t feel it turning to sincerity in his throat until he’s speaking, until the words are coming softer than he intended past his lips.

He can feel the weird stutter in Izaya’s breathing as he catches an inhale, telltale surprise even when he manages a laugh and a “Shizu-chan, I  _knew_  you had a heart in there somewhere.” Shizuo knows he should lean back, or pull away, or maybe replace his bracing hold on Izaya’s coat to match the fingers curling around the back of his neck; it’s not like he doesn’t know where this is going. But he’s leaning in instead, unintentionally responsive to the thin fingers pushing up against his hair, and Izaya’s mouth is on his and Izaya’s teeth are catching at his healed lip and his heart is pounding harder than it has in days. There’s pressure, the threat of a bite against his mouth, but Shizuo doesn’t jerk away and after a moment Izaya lets him go without drawing blood, laughs against his lips and opens his mouth like Shizuo’s passed some kind of a test. The taste of his mouth fills Shizuo’s head, floods over his tongue and hazes his thoughts and he was  _fine_ , he hasn’t missed this and he didn’t want it but now that he has it again his breathing is unsteady and his heart is thudding too-fast in his chest and his hands are grabbing at Izaya’s shirt, pushing up the fabric to press against the friction of bare skin and drag the other in closer to him. Izaya doesn’t offer any resistance at all; he just tips forward, so far Shizuo loses his balance and falls back to the mattress. He could throw a hand out to catch himself but he doesn’t, he holds onto Izaya instead, and Izaya lands on top of him with all his boneless weight so Shizuo grunts in the brief pain of impact as all the air leaves his lungs.

It doesn’t distract him for more than a breath. Izaya is fitting their legs together, shifting so he can match his body to the shape of Shizuo’s, and there’s still a blanket between them but Shizuo can see where this is going and isn’t going to offer protest. Fingernails are scraping against his scalp and dragging down the line of his throat but Izaya’s breathing as hard as he is, Shizuo can feel the rushed pace of his inhales in the pattern of ribs under his fingers, and he’s waiting for the panic, the self-preservation telling him to shove Izaya off him and run, but it’s gone as silent as the city is without the other’s influence.

“I know what your problem is,” Izaya says suddenly, sounding as calm as if he’s just collecting the thread of a dropped conversation, and confusion stops Shizuo’s trajectory of kissing against the sharp line of his jaw. He drops his head back to the pillow and Izaya doesn’t follow, just stays where he is so he’s looking down at the blond. The light is still not reaching his eyes, but the rest of his features are clear, Shizuo can even see the tug of tension at the corner of his mouth.

“My problem?” he echoes back, too derailed to process the meaning for a moment. “What the  _fuck_  are you talking about?”

“You don’t trust me,” Izaya says, delivering this with an air of gravitas that seems to imply it’s some great revelation.

Shizuo blinks. “Yeah?”

“That’s your problem.” Izaya leans in close, scrapes his teeth against Shizuo’s jaw in something that is almost-but-not-quite a kiss and almost-but-not-quite a bite. “And my problem.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Shizuo repeats. He starts to sit up but Izaya doesn’t follow, keeps leaning forward so his weight is pinning Shizuo to the bed. Shizuo doesn’t  _really_  want to throw him off, at least not at the moment, so he stays still, keeps watching Izaya’s teeth in case this is leading into direct attack. It’s not really in the other’s idiom, but still.

“I trust you,” Izaya says, and this claim is so absurd Shizuo barks a laugh. Izaya huffs, lets his neck go to clap a hand over his mouth instead. “Shut up, Shizu-chan, some of us communicate with words as well as fists. I called you, I passed out on your couch, I  _slept in your bed_.” The last comes out raw, vicious at the edges, and Izaya’s fingers tighten against Shizuo’s lips. “I didn’t have a  _choice_. But you think I’m some sort of god, maybe, like I could materialize weapons out of thin air, and while I’m immensely flattered I’m not going to get what I want this way.” He takes a breath. “So I’m going to make you trust me.”

Shizuo laughs from behind the cover of Izaya’s hand. Izaya lifts his fingers away and Shizuo pulls up the most vicious smile he can manage. “You want me  _dead_ , Izaya-kun. How exactly are you going to prove your trustworthiness?”

“I don’t,” Izaya says, so softly Shizuo almost doesn’t hear the words. “I don’t want you dead.”

“You’re full of shit,” Shizuo snaps, because Izaya sounds almost sincere, and that idea is like missing a step. “How fucking gullible do you think I am?”

Izaya’s expression goes soft around a laugh, amusement collecting in the corners of his eyes and flashing off his teeth. “Pretty fucking gullible, Shizu-chan.” He leans in closer again, and Shizuo doesn’t shut his eyes under the pressure of his mouth but he doesn’t pull away, either, lets Izaya brush his lips to the blond’s before he pulls back just enough to speak. “You didn’t think about weapons at all, this time.”

Shizuo hears the words, but it takes a moment for him to backtrack the meaning to their implication. He can feel the blood drain out of his face when it sinks in, when he realizes that’s Izaya’s left hand against his neck, that he hasn’t seen the other’s right at all, and that’s when there’s the scrape of metal against his skin.

Izaya’s fingers close into his hair, drag his head sideways so lips can brush against his ear. “If I wanted you dead I could have killed you when I came in.” A thumb catches the edge of his undershirt, pushes it up while Izaya slides the knife edge up in its wake. “I could have killed you when you pulled me onto the bed.” Izaya’s teeth catch at Shizuo’s earlobe, pull sharp and hard enough to bring a burst of pain with them before he lets go. “I could kill you now.” The knife presses in harder, threatening Shizuo’s skin; Shizuo doesn’t move his hand from along Izaya’s back, but he can feel all his body tensing in expectation of pain, in preparation for adrenaline surging through him.

Then there’s a movement, that same stunning speed that Izaya usually demonstrates on his feet, and Shizuo flinches even as he processes the lack of pain, the lack even of numbing adrenaline in his veins. Izaya’s touch is gone too, the warmth of his fingers against Shizuo’s ribs lost, and when the blond turns his head he sees why; they’re gripping the handle of a knife currently buried at least an inch into the wall over his head.

Izaya lets the handle go, fits his fingers back against Shizuo’s ribs to press warmth into his skin. “Relax.” His lips brush Shizuo’s shoulder, slide against the edge of his shirt. They are warm but Shizuo still shivers like he’s made of ice. “Just  _trust_  me, Shizu-chan.”

“Trust you,” Shizuo says. He intends it to sounds sarcastic. It comes out trembling instead. “Fuck.” A memory slides up to the surface of his thoughts, presses against his attention until he starts to grin with the edge of hysteria. “You make it sound so easy.”

Izaya doesn’t even hesitate, shows no sign of surprise at Shizuo quoting his own words back at him. “It is easy,” he says, so smoothly Shizuo wonders for a moment if he was expecting the blond’s answer. “Just relax.”

Shizuo takes a breath. “Okay.” He swallows hard, laughs weakly. “I deserved that.”

“Yes,” Izaya says against his collarbone. “You did.” He’s dragged Shizuo’s collar down to the side, has his lips pressed so close to the blond’s skin Shizuo is certain he’s leaving a mark. He doesn’t care. He already has an arm around Izaya’s waist; the other doesn’t have enough weight to offer any true resistance, once Shizuo twists his arm under himself and shoves them both sideways. Izaya lands hard on the mattress, starts to put voice to a whine of protest, but Shizuo covers his mouth with a kiss instead, bites at his lip until the protest turns into a purr of mocking reaction and Izaya rocks up off the bed against the blanket still trapped between them.

“That was a nice show,” Shizuo says as he pulls away, kicks at the blankets to free his legs from the sheets. “How do I know you don’t have more knives hidden on you right now, though?”

Izaya blinks at him, slowly and deliberately in the darkened light, tips his head back so the faint illumination catches off his throat. “I guess you’ll have to check to be sure.”

Shizuo doesn’t wait for more of an invitation. He was really just trying to get his feet free, anyway. Izaya doesn’t move as Shizuo comes in, doesn’t start laughing with sharp-edged pleasure until Shizuo has his mouth pressed up to his throat so he can feel the shiver of the vibration under his lips. He keeps his mouth there, catches his lips to form a seal and sucks a bruise into the skin; it’ll show over the neckline of Izaya’s shirt, a mark more deliberate than their usual exchange of blood and bruises and concussions. Izaya tastes like fire under his lips, heat and smoke and poison bitter as cigarettes until Shizuo can’t resist the urge to slick his tongue across the steady thud of pulse under his skin. When he pushes at the heavy weight of Izaya’s coat the other lets his hold on Shizuo’s waist go to slide his arm free, is replacing his hold before he tugs his other hand loose and reaches up to hook his entire arm around Shizuo’s shoulders. With the better angle he can arch entirely off the bed, press himself in against Shizuo’s chest, and that leaves not much between the heat of their bodies but an undershirt and a t-shirt that might actually be thinner than Shizuo’s own.

“Aren’t you  _cold_?” Shizuo asks the dip between Izaya’s collarbones as he shoves the black fabric high up across his ribcage. The bandages are gone but the tenderness remains, enough that he can feel Izaya almost-flinch at the touch of his hand.

“Not right now, Shizu-chan.” It’s a fair response. He’s burning like an open flame, flaring hotter as Shizuo gets higher against his chest; Shizuo pulls back for a moment and Izaya lets him go in the same breath, lifting his arms and twisting against the sheets so Shizuo can strip his shirt up and off him. The loss of the covering leaves the dark stitches clear against the pale of his skin, stretching up over his shoulder and across the line of his hip as evidence of the injuries that have faded out of the purple-blue bruises Shizuo remembers. More importantly, it leaves the tremor in his breathing clear, the quiver under his skin making him look as fragile and human as he did that first night.

Then he grins and the moment evaporates, he’s just Izaya again, all sharp edges and dangerous eyes and flame-hot skin It’s still intriguing, and Shizuo can’t see the mark from his mouth yet so he ducks back down, takes the offer of Izaya’s slanted throat and sets his mouth in under the cutting edge of jaw while he pulls roughly at the fastenings of the other’s jeans.

“Gently,” Izaya purrs, the word more a suggestion than a protest. “I want to still have clothes to wear out of here.” One hand drops from Shizuo’s hair, slides in underneath the push of his fingers, and the button slips free like it was never held at all, the zipper all but falls open. Shizuo would protest or at least growl irritation but he’s too busy getting his hand inside Izaya’s jeans, pushing at the fabric of the other’s boxers so he can grind his palm against the hard shape of his cock under the clothes.

Izaya’s fingers close on his wrist, that same sharp-edged dig that leaves crescent tears in Shizuo’s skin, and there’s real danger in his tone even as he arches up off the mattress to shove against Shizuo’s hand. “If you try to do that one-sided thing again I actually will kill you.” It’s a promise, Shizuo doesn’t have to look at his eyes to be certain of that.

“I won’t,” he says, because his heart is pounding so hard he can barely see and every breath he takes feels and tastes like Izaya. “I just like you desperate.”

“ _Fuck_  you, Shizu-chan,” Izaya spits, scratching against Shizuo’s skin, but he’s not stopping the half-rhythmic motion of his hips, isn’t letting his hold on Shizuo’s wrist go. Each time he moves his leg presses in against Shizuo, brushes momentarily against the blond’s length, and it’s friction and it’s heat and it’s not enough, the angle isn’t right and Shizuo’s patience is fraying fast.

“Shit.” He jerks his hand away, breaks free of Izaya’s hold at the cost of a row of scratches across his wrist before he rolls sideways on the bed. He doesn’t process the strangled sound of protest Izaya makes until he’s halfway out of his shirt, doesn’t realize that must have looked like retreat until he’s tossing the fabric aside and pushing at his boxers.

“I’m not  _going_ ,” he blurts as he kicks one leg free. “Take your fucking pants off, Izaya-kun, do you want to do this or not?”

Izaya hisses, so vicious it sounds like negation for a moment, but when Shizuo glances back he’s dropping back to the bed, arching so he can push his clothes down off his legs. Shizuo topples sideways, stretches to reach for the drawer in the bedside table; he’s still fumbling through the contents, looking for a half-forgotten bottle, when there’s a touch at his hip.

“Hurry  _up_ ,” and the fingers drag harder, scrape maybe hard enough to draw blood and certainly hard enough to draw a shudder. “I’m tired of waiting for you.”

“You’re such a pest.” His fingers close on the bottle and he twists back, nearly hitting Izaya’s face with his forehead before he realizes how close they are. There’s a whole expanse of bare skin, now, stitches Shizuo remembers setting and pale legs skinnier than he remembers, but Izaya is toppling back to the sheets and arching up in anticipation and Shizuo doesn’t want to take the time for aesthetic appreciation, right now. He slicks his fingers fast and messy, barely getting the bottle closed again before Izaya is reaching for his hand to slide his palm across the slippery skin.

“What are you doing?” Shizuo demands, hesitating for a moment, and Izaya reaches down and wraps his slippery fingers around Shizuo’s cock.

“You don’t understand basic commands, Shizu-chan.” He shifts his grip, heat blossoming in the wake of his fingers, and then he strokes up and Shizuo can feel his spine arch in the burst of tension that follows. “ _Hurry up_.”

“Fuck you,” Shizuo repeats, lacking the mental concentration for anything more substantial, and reaches down to push his fingers against Izaya’s entrance. Izaya’s angling his legs wider without being told, tipping his hips up as in invitation, and when Shizuo grabs at his hip to hold him down and forces two fingers into him at once his entire body shivers against the bed. He’s so hard his cock is pressing against his stomach, slicking pre-come against his skin, and Shizuo can hear his breathing stall, can feel the fingers stroking over the blond’s length catch into stillness for a moment as he pushes in deeper. His own heartbeat is thudding faster, his attention caught by the convulsive almost-moans he can see working in Izaya’s throat, and when his fingers bottom out he draws back without hesitation to thrust back in. Izaya jerks at that, finally manages a wailed gasp, and his hand is moving again, dragging up over Shizuo’s cock like it’s a race to take the other to incoherency first. Shizuo rocks forward to press his forehead against Izaya’s shoulder, so close Izaya’s gasped inhales ruffle his hair, and starts to work him open in earnest, pushing so hard he can feel the effort of holding the other still jolt up his bracing arm with every thrust. But Izaya is matching his effort; Shizuo has no idea what he’s doing with his fingers but it’s burning up his spine with every movement, Izaya’s thumb is slipping and catching at every sensitive curve of Shizuo’s cock until he’s sure he’s at least as slick with pre-come as he is with lube.

“Stop,” he finally manages. “Christ, you have to  _stop_ , I won’t last like this.”

“Don’t you have any  _stamina_?” Izaya taunts, but he’s breathless and shivering and it dulls the edge of his words. Shizuo laughs, sharp and short, draws his fingers back and grabs at Izaya’s wrist to pull him off.

“Shut up.” He shifts his weight, pins Izaya’s hand up over his head and takes his balance onto that arm so he can use his other to push the other’s legs wider and fit himself in closer. Izaya’s radiant against him, all burning heat and sharp edges, and for a minute Shizuo is pressing slick against the underside of his cock and he almost doesn’t keep going, almost just leans in and grinds against the heat of the other’s body. But then he drops his weight, and Izaya arches up, and Shizuo’s there and Izaya’s panting he’s breathing so hard, and Shizuo doesn’t contemplate stopping. He just rocks his hips forward, thrusts in hard and fast, and he’s sliding into the grip of Izaya’s body before either of them have a chance to catch a breath.

Izaya makes a noise, a groan that echoes in his throat into a lower tone than Shizuo has ever heard from him; Shizuo is perfectly silent, can’t breathe and can’t speak and can’t do anything at all but thrust forward as far as he can, one desperate-fast motion to drown himself in friction and heat and pressure. Even when his hips press against Izaya’s he can’t take an inhale; he just draws back halfway, thrusts forward again, and he’s forgetting everything, there’s just the gasp of air in his lungs and the insistent ache for  _more_  under his skin.

Now would be exactly the right time for an attack, some distant logical part of his brain points out. If Izaya wanted to do some real damage Shizuo has no defenses at the moment, no way to resist even if he saw danger coming. But Izaya’s moaning instead of breathing, gasping on every inhale and stroking hard up over himself, and Shizuo doesn’t care, right now, even if Izaya  _did_  try to kill him, as long as he can have satisfaction first. He’s got his mouth pressed against Izaya’s throat again, just the damp of his lips on skin without even the almost-threat of teeth, and he can feel the thrumming resonance of sound against his mouth as clearly as the slide of fingers across his stomach as Izaya’s wrist falls in time with the movement of Shizuo’s hips.

Shizuo doesn’t try to resist the rising tension he can feel gathering against his spine and low in his stomach and aching through his cock. He’s already capitulated to the danger; at this point all the adrenaline is doing is pushing him to the edge faster, promising stronger relief when it hits. He digs his fingers in hard against Izaya’s skin, can feel the give of skin catching and tearing under his fingernails, but Izaya doesn’t offer even a hiss of protest around the desperate gasping he is offering in lieu of breathing. He’s still stroking over himself with increasing speed but Shizuo doesn’t slow his movement; he’s too far gone, can only observe distantly that he’s going to come first before it hits him in a single convulsive wave. He groans into Izaya’s shoulder, his fingers slip against the other’s hip, and for a small infinity of heartbeats there’s nothing but heat washing his vision white and sweeping all his physical control into shuddering relief.

He’s still breathless, still blinking starburst light from his eyes, when he registers how quick Izaya’s breathing is going, how jerky his movements have become. It’s not deliberation as much as instinct that loosens Shizuo’s hold on Izaya’s hip in favor of pushing his hand aside; Izaya offers a whine of protest for the pause in the friction, but then Shizuo curls his fingers around the other’s cock and Izaya chokes, reaches up to grab at Shizuo’s shoulder, and that’s agreement enough. Shizuo jerks up over him as fast as he can, rough and irregular but hard and quick, and it does what it’s supposed to, brings Izaya shaking into orgasm in a matter of seconds. Shizuo doesn’t feel the scratches across his shoulders for the heat at his fingers, doesn’t notice the effort of his own breathing for the whine in Izaya’s, and in the first moments of mutual satisfaction he doesn’t even want to pull away from the sharp edges of the other’s body.

“Are you going to stay?” he finally asks, before he lifts his head from Izaya’s shoulder and before he’s pulled away.

Fingernails scrape against his shoulder, retracing aching skin. Shizuo  _does_  feel that, hisses weak protest, but the ache of hurt isn’t worth the effort of pulling away. “I haven’t decided.” Izaya sounds considering, his tone only slightly ruined by the way he has to pause to breathe in the middle of his sentence. “Would you miss me if I didn’t?”

“Not at all,” Shizuo lies. “I’d sleep better knowing you weren’t here.”

“Mm,” Izaya hums. “I’d hate to keep you up, Shizu-chan. You need your beauty sleep.”

Shizuo huffs an exhausted laugh. “Fuck you, Izaya-kun.”

Izaya shoves at his shoulder. “Get off me, at least let me use your shower before I abandon you to your dreams.”

“Don’t drown,” Shizuo suggests as he pulls away and lets Izaya go.

“Of course not.” Izaya is unsteady on his feet but he doesn’t pause to bother with clothes before making for the door. “I would hate to deprive you of the pleasure of killing me.”

He takes a long time in the shower; by the time the sound of running water stops, Shizuo has pushed their tangled clothes off the bed and is on the verge of sleep himself. It’s disconcerting to be woken up by damp skin and the sharp edge of a voice demanding “Move over, Shizu-chan, you’re taking up the whole bed.” But then there’s a thin shoulder fitting under his arm, wet hair that still smells familiar under the clean of soap, and skin flushing warm to more than make up for the chill of evaporating water it brings with it. Shizuo curls in closer, rolls half-over to pin Izaya down to the bed, and lets sleep take him.

He dreams through the rest of the night.


	8. Epilogue: Sustainable

“Wake up, Shizu-chan.”

“Fuck.” Shizuo growls against the pillow, throws out one hand without looking. He misses his mark the first try, gets his fingers pressed against the scar in Izaya’s shoulder instead of his mouth. “Shut up.” There’s a laugh, explicit disobedience even if Shizuo had thought for a moment that words would be enough, the scrape of fingernails across the blond’s ribcage as Shizuo feels out the shape of Izaya’s mouth by running his hand up the line of the other’s throat. He gets his fingers at Izaya’s mouth, and Izaya gets his teeth against Shizuo’s hand, and there is a moment when Shizuo realizes  _I should have seen that coming_  just before Izaya bites down and tears blood out over his skin.

“ _Ow_ ,” Shizuo snaps, and kicks at the too-skinny weight next to him. He makes contact but it’s a glancing blow, Izaya is twisting away and off the bed and Shizuo is sitting up to grab at him before processing the capitulation inherent in his motion.

“Morning,” Izaya drawls, stepping back across the floor to stay out of Shizuo’s reach as the blond growls and lunges for him without extricating himself from the sheets. There’s no hint of a limp, the evidence of his injuries long since healed to white-traced scars Shizuo can only make out in the brightest of lights or under the gentlest of touches. Unfortunately that proof of health makes him harder to catch, demands that Shizuo climb out of bed entirely in an attempt to pin the other in against the corner of two walls. He’s still drowsy, bleary with lingering sleep, and either Izaya has been awake for some time or he comes to full alertness within seconds of waking because he’s darting out of the bedroom, skirting towards the living room and leaving Shizuo to hiss and advance in his wake.

“We made a mess last night,” he’s calling back as Shizuo emerges. Izaya’s hanging over the back of the couch, stretching to curl the tips of his fingers under the collar of an abandoned shirt and fishing it up so he can crumple the fabric in his hand and press the cloth to his nose. “When are you going to quit smoking, Shizu-chan?”

“Fuck off,” Shizuo hisses. “If you don’t like the smell of the smoke--”

“It doesn’t smell like smoke,” Izaya says, and he’s grinning, Shizuo can hear the amusement in his voice even if his mouth is covered by the fabric. “It smells like me,” and that stalls Shizuo’s words and motion both, leaves Izaya unobstructed as he laughs and swings the shirt around his shoulders so he can fit his arms into the loose sleeves.

“What do you think?” He’s smiling, tipping his chin down so his eyes are cast dark in the shadow of his hair and the white of his teeth flashes brighter. Shizuo moves forward without thinking, crossing the distance so Izaya has to hurry in the movement of his fingers as he buttons up the front of the fabric. “Do you still have a fetish for me in your clothes?”

Shizuo’s close enough to grab at him now; Izaya doesn’t pull away, this time, when Shizuo grabs at his shoulder and drags his balance sideways and stumbling. “I  _don’t_  have a fetish for you wearing my clothes.”

Izaya raises an eyebrow, gives up on the buttoning in favor of looping an arm around Shizuo’s shoulders. “There’s no use denying it.” His free hand presses in against Shizuo’s chest, trails down over the bare skin until he can wrap his fingers against the blond’s waist and dig his fingertips into the other’s back. “We both know you dressed me in your shirt the first chance you had.”

“I could have killed you instead,” Shizuo points out, even though that’s an old threat, the sharp edges worn dull by repetition and lack of follow-through for what have been months of opportunity. It still makes Izaya purr in the back of his throat, the sound the only warning Shizuo gets before the other trusts his weight to the arm around the blond’s shoulders so he can loop his legs around Shizuo’s hips and pull himself in closer. Shizuo grabs at his waist to counterbalance his weight and Izaya whines, arches in to push himself closer. Nails scratch against the back of Shizuo’s neck, Izaya ducks his head, and Shizuo doesn’t even flinch at the tear of teeth against his shoulder.

“Why did you even get out of bed?” Shizuo asks. It’s a few steps to the wall, where he can shove Izaya’s shoulders back against the support and free his hand to fumble at the half-done buttons of the shirt. “This would be easier there.”

“You were asleep,” Izaya whines, sounding plaintive and harmless. “I just wanted you to wake up.”

“You  _bit_  me.” The angle is wrong, the gap between Shizuo’s body and Izaya’s too small. Shizuo closes his fingers on the open collar of the shirt and pulls sharp so the thread holding the buttons to the fabric gives way.

“Yes,” Izaya agrees. He’s laughing against Shizuo’s shoulder, pressing in closer even at the pinging of the plastic of the buttons hitting the floor. “You woke up.”

“Fuck,” Shizuo says again, and he wish he wasn’t fighting back a laugh but he is. “You’re fucking insane.”

“You like it,” Izaya says, and it’s a statement rather than a taunt and Shizuo can’t muster a denial. He pushes in harder instead, crushes Izaya’s breath away with the pressure of his shoulders for a moment, and while the other is gasping to regain his composure Shizuo sets his lips at Izaya’s ear, close enough that his cheek is pressed against the sharp edge of the other’s cheekbone.

“I hate you, Izaya-kun.” His fingers are up against Izaya’s skin, tracing scars under the shadow of Shizuo’s own shirt, and Izaya’s heels are pressed in against the curve of his spine, and the words come out soft and gentle on his tongue.

There’s a laugh at his ear, breath tickling his hair, and Izaya’s teeth close at the bottom edge of his earlobe, tug just short of pain before he lets go. “I hate you too, Shizu-chan.”

Shizuo huffs amusement, and Izaya purrs against his hair, and neither of them try to pull away.


End file.
